


Idle Hands

by Miriam_Heddy



Series: Blond Bombshell [1]
Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:19:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6051379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part One of Blond Bombshell</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idle Hands

One: Idle Hands

Vince was in the lounge, holding a hand mirror and fixing his hair, when he heard Howard clomp up the stairs. He quickly hid the mirror under the cushion and picked up a magazine, trying to look casual.

Howard glanced his way then turnt toward the fridge, pulling out a can of cola and pouring it into a glass. He looked back at Vince and lifted the glass, peering over it. Vince nodded in his direction. His hair felt different, moved differently. He waited for Howard to notice.

Howard sank down on the sofa beside Vince and took a sip. He set the glass down, then rested his head back on the sofa, eyes shut, fingers laced over his belly.

Vince shifted in his seat, loudly cleared his throat, then turnt the pages of the magazine. Howard's eyes stayed shut.

"Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard!"

Vince gave up and elbowed him in the side.

"Hmm?" Howard lifted his head up and blinked at him.

"What do you think?"

Howard's eyes narrowed. "About what?"

"The LibDems."

"What??"

"My hair! What else, ya tit?"

Howard frowned at him, looking sleepy. "It's yellow?"

"Blond."

"Right. Blond. Not at all yellow." Howard picked up his cola and took another sip, frowning as if he didn't like the taste.

"What do you think of it?" Vince put his hand in his hair and ran his fingers through it. The chemicals had dried it out a bit and changed the texture. He'd done it up with stiffening gel, putting spikes in it. He'd had blond streaks years ago, but he'd never done the complete thing, with the spikes and all.

Howard took his time answering, finally saying, "What do you think of it?"

"I asked you first."

Howard shrugged. "It's ye--blond. And spikey. It's... Different."

"It's punk."

"Is punk the look now?"

Vince blinked at him, then remembered that Howard lived in Stationary Village and rode the Coltrain to work. "Yeah, Howard. Punk's punk. It's eternal."

Howard raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't punk punk about five years ago, when your hair was black and sort of--" Howard gestured up and around his head vaguely.

"That was The Clash punk. This is Billy Idol punk."

"Ah," Howard said, as if he understood. Vince knew he could've said anything. What Howard knew about punk could fit on the end of a rusty safety pin.

"So, do you like it?"

Howard sat up a bit and gave him a sidelong glance, apparently finally noticing the whole look: black leather jacket, black leather trousers, white t-shirt, shit-kicking motorcycle boots.

"It's... not to my tastes."

"What's that mean, exactly?"

Howard rolled his eyes. "It means exactly that. I'm a man of classic tastes. I don't follow the fickle winds of fashion. So long as my record collection goes unmolested..."

"No one's touching your bloody records, Howard. Christy--you and your vinyl should get married."

"Bigamy is illegal. And, despite your bad attitude, I hope you enjoy your new hair in good health. Speaking of, you planning to go out this evening or shall I be graced with your esteemed company?"

Vince gave him a long stare. "Yeah. No. My steamy company's going to be gracing your bum in a minute. Saturday night, I'll be out to see a mate's band--The MaryAnns?"

Howard gave him his, "Don't know; Don't care" look.

"Well, they're playing--opening--and I said I'd check it out. It's on the wall." He meant Howard's calendar, hung on the wall. Ever since Vince began putting his own schedule on it, it had started to serve a purpose besides demonstrating that Howard's social life was mostly a social death.

"You looking to join them?"

Vince shrugged, uncertain. "It's a bit early for that."

The answer was that he'd heard their bassist wasn't thrilled with their lead singer's drug habit and they were looking for talent, or, at minimum, someone who was guaranteed to show up on time. Vince's mate was the drummer, and he knew the bassist as well, so he reckoned if he showed up, he might get onstage with them and see. 

But it was weird doing it without Howard auditioning, or even interested in coming along to watch. 

They'd only just decided to split up--not the relationship, but just musically--and he still wasn't sure it was the right thing. Vince was still interested in fronting a band, not to get famous anymore, but just for fun. He'd pretty much decided fame wasn't going to happen, though a little bit of him remained optimistic.

Howard was never as invested in fame, nor in the kind of music Vince thought of as music. Howard had joined up with two other jazzy types and the trio were doing low-key coffeehouse gigs and community events--the sort of thing Vince would've once taken the piss about. Only he was proper mature now.

At the end of August, Naboo had made some vague comments suggesting he might close up shop and check out life on the rest of the planet. They weren't sure he was serious, but just in case, they'd started to look for other work. Well, Howard had. Vince reckoned he'd find something in the front of a shop easy enough.

Howard had taken to giving group twice-weekly music lessons to kiddies at one of those posh children's centres. He'd been at it two months now, and, though he wouldn't let Vince visit, he seemed to be liking it well enough he said he might do it full-time, which'd leave Vince on his own at the Nabootique. Vince might've argued, once, but things were different, now.

Vince had even been the one to suggest Howard try teaching music, as he knew few things made Howard happier than knowing something other people didn't and telling them about it. The kiddie place had put an ad out for a trained music teacher, but he'd told Howard to ignore that. He'd done music at Uni. That and his performance experience ought to be good enough. Howard said it wouldn't, but then he got the position, and Vince hadn't yet let up saying, "Told you so."

Vince decided if they were staying in, the boots ought to come off. He stood up and took off the jacket as well, setting it on the sofa, then got the boots off, putting them in the boot line. Howard's scuffed hiking boots were stood beside them.

"So what's on for tonight, then?"

"Bergman film on." Howard lifted his arms up above his head, fingers still laced together but palms turnt up in a stretch. Vince watched Howard's shirt lift up, baring a narrow strip of pale skin.

"Hmm. What?"

"Bergman," Howard said again.

Vince brought his eyes back up. "No way. Nothing with subtitles. And I want colour. If I want to read, I'll pick up a book."

"Alright, what's your suggestion?"

Vince ruffled his hair again, liking the way the spikes moved. He unzipped his leather trousers, stood up, and wiggled them off. He had on a pair of red pants, and he reckoned it would've been a sexy look if his legs weren't dusted with talcum powder. He bent over and ran his hands over his legs, trying to get some of it off. He stood up and brushed his palms together, making a little puff of white smoke.

He saw Howard was staring at him with that look that suggested he'd only just remembered he fancied blokes.

"We could shag," Vince suggested, striking a pose, tum sucked in, hand on hip, hip thrust out.

Howard smiled, his mustache lifting at the corners, his eyes crinkling up. "Well, that surely takes care of twenty minutes."

"Oi! Speak for yourself, Bugs Bunny. Some of us like to take it slow and steady."

Howard used his thumb and forefinger to trace over his mustache, thoughtfully. "Slow and steady, you say?"

Vince nodded and lifted his hands above his head, stretching as Howard had before. His t-shirt lifted up. "Was reading about how Sting can keep it going for hours. Tannic sex, they call it."

Howard's eyebrows drew together. "That's Tantric sex. Wine's tannic."

"You're very astringent about words, Howard."

"I--what?"

"Aaaa, gotcha." Vince pointed his finger at Howard and cocked it.

Howard sighed. "You think you're sooo clever."

Vince winked. "Might say I've a dry wit."

"Yeah, well, put a cork in it, little man."

Vince grinned and sat back down on the sofa, close, so their thighs were touching. "You saying you're not interested in my body?"

Howard licked his lips and put his hand down between Vince's legs. Vince was half-hard already, but Howard's touch brought him all the way up. "Hmm. Let me 'ave a taste. I'll need to see what kind of mouth feel you've got before I decide."

Vince giggled. "Stop. I'm blushing."

Howard's fingers outlined his shaft. Vince tilted his head back and slid his hips forward. He lifted his hips, letting Howard pull off his pants.

He heard Howard's zip come open, and then Howard was bent over him, giving Vince the kind of blowie that made him feel a special kind of stupid, his head gone fizzy, his mouth hung open, his eyes shut, his senses all narrowed down to his cock.

It wasn't long before he was tugging Howard's hair, but Howard stayed on him, one hand on himself, the other squeezing Vince's thigh hard enough to leave bruises.

Then Vince was coming, and Howard was swallowing him down.

When he was spent and slipt out of Howard's mouth, Vince sat up and forced his eyes open so he could watch Howard finish himself. 

His eyes were shut tight, his nostrils flaring as he breathed, and his parted lips were shiny. Howard was beautiful. 

The first time he let Vince watch, it was brilliant, putting visuals to the sounds he'd heard all the times they'd been sharing a tent, or a room, trying to keep quiet. It was difficult, as, for the longest time, the sound of Howard tossing off made him want to giggle. It was never cause it was funny. It was more a nerves thing, especially as hearing Howard doing it usually meant he got hard as well, only he couldn't do anything about it without it being weird, with both of them wanking at once.

So he knew the sounds of it--the zipper, the soft sound of corduroy, the little grunting sigh of relief Howard always made as he first put his hand on it. When Howard finally let him watch, he told Vince he had to keep absolutely quiet, and Vince had, except for his own breathing, which got a bit noisy as Howard got into it and Vince got excited.

Howard didn't like using much lube. He said he didn't like the feel of it. Vince felt it hurt without it. But Howard spit in his hand, slicked his bell end with precum, and used short, up and down strokes with continual pressure, and a little thumbing of the tip. Vince himself liked to mix it up, but Howard liked to say he was a man of simple needs. He was efficient, a bit tensed up--like some part of him wouldn't let go--but then there was a moment when the pleasure got to him, and that was when Vince liked to watch his face. Howard would tip his head back, bite down on his lower lip, and his face and neck would get rosey. Then he'd be breathing fast and his powerful thighs would tense, and bam, he'd be coming hard.

This time, though, Howard got to that tipping point and hissed out his name, "Vince," as he spurted out pulses of come over his belly and trousers.

Then Howard lifted his head, opened his eyes, and smiled wolfishly at Vince as he whispered, hoarsely, "So... You still up for some Bergman?"

Vince pulled himself toward Howard and kissed him, hard and long, as he braced himself for another night of snogging and Swedish cinema.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story has multiple parts and began as my attempt to write out a scene I'd only described in passing. 
> 
> Comments are lovely.
> 
> If you spot any errors, I'd appreciate if you drop me a line at: miriam.heddy@comcast.net (promise I'll not be at all embarrassed!)


End file.
